


One Time Thing

by swatkat



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3896395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Shit,' Wilson says again. It feels like the most appropriate thing to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Time Thing

  
**Title:** One Time Thing  
**Fandom:** House, M.D  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson/Cuddy ♥ (yes, **threesome** )  
**Words:** 4445 words  
**Summary:** 'Shit,' he says again. It feels like the most appropriate thing to say.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Playing.  
**A/N:** Many thanks to [](http://severuslovesme.livejournal.com/profile)[**severuslovesme**](http://severuslovesme.livejournal.com/) and [](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/profile)[**queenzulu**](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/) for looking through this. Could be read as a sequel to [Talk of This and That](http://swatkat24.livejournal.com/93159.html#cutid1), but doesn't really matter. **ETA:** Now with added italics!

He wakes to unfamiliar sounds: a rhythmic _thump_ that he can't quite place; the _thud_ of a door being slammed.

_It's just House_ , he thinks then, after a moment of disorientation. The light hurts his eyes and so he closes them again, falling back on the bed.

More things begin to register.

Headache; slight nausea: signs of a hangover.

Pale morning light creeping in through the curtains, and when did he get curtains like that?

Soreness in certain, well, certain unexpected places.

House. _House_ , in his _bathroom_.

There are clothes strewn all over the floor – too many clothes, and the floor doesn't look that familiar, either.

And beside him on his bed, Lisa Cuddy, naked and mussed and slowly beginning to stir.

It all comes back in a rush then: the benefit dinner. House in a tuxedo and Cuddy in midnight blue, smiling. Drinks, more drinks, and House pleasantly mellow with an arm slung around his shoulder. More drinks, and banter, almost flirtatious. One thing leading to another, and then –

'Shit,' Wilson says.

The look of pure horror on Cuddy's face would've been amusing if Wilson didn't know it for a fact that _he_ was sporting the same expression on _his_ face.

'Shit,' he says again. It feels like the most appropriate thing to say.

*

Breakfast is a subdued affair: Wilson makes toast; Cuddy makes coffee, quite resolutely refusing to look at either of them. Which is fine by Wilson, because he doesn't think he could look _anyone_ in the eye right now. House hogs the newspaper, filling in the crossword in ink.

The silence is unnerving. It's going to be alright, Wilson tells himself. It's going to be alright.

He almost makes himself believe it, until -

Until House looks up and says, 'I hope you're planning on wearing something revealing today? That's a fine hickey you've got there.'

'Shut up,' Cuddy says, with an amount of venom that's unusual even for her.

They get kicked out soon after that.

Outside, it's bright and sunny, with fluffy white clouds and an impossibly blue sky. It makes Wilson feel slightly sick.

'It was a _compliment_ ,' House says, once they're in the car.

'Shut up,' Wilson says, gripping the steering wheel harder. And for once in his life, House obeys.

*

Wilson somehow manages to make it to work that day, because he is not House and has duties to fulfil that cannot be passed on to minions, and because while he did briefly consider calling in sick for the day, he didn't think his boss would quite buy that. He even manages to make it to work in time.

Which of course means that he is right there in Oncology – in the middle of a deep discussion with Nurse Hall about the troublesome Mrs. Tomlinson and her ever-increasing complaints about everything under the sun – when Cuddy drops by for one of her daily rounds, leaving him with absolutely no opportunity to quietly slip away.

She is wearing, Wilson notes, a lovely high-neck thing, one that clings to her in all the right places, at the same time cleverly concealing that incriminating mark on her neck. The thought makes his pulse race.

She is also, Wilson notes, not in the best of moods. She signs the papers thrust at her with crisp efficiency; she smiles and chats with the patients, as always, but her smiles are almost certainly forced, and she stays away from the children.

She won't look at him. At all. It's as if he's suddenly turned invisible. It's unsettling, and Wilson feels like he should say something, even if he doesn't know _what_. He does have some experience with those awkward morning after talks with women, but somehow, all his experience comes to naught when it comes to an awkward morning after talk with Lisa Cuddy.

'Hey – '

'Don't even think about it,' she snaps. Walks away while he stands there, gaping at her retreating figure with a slightly foolish expression on his face. On her way back she admonishes a group of unfortunate students gathered in the hallway (who will no doubt have nightmares about the incident in near future) for making noise. Her footsteps echo angrily in the corridor.

'She's been like that all morning,' whispers Nurse Hall sympathetically. 'Poor Debbie was almost in tears after she left her office.' An 'oh' is all Wilson can manage in reply. And when Nurse Hall's pretty face falls a bit, Wilson flashes a quick, warm smile at the good nurse, and squeezes her hand with his own – but his heart isn't in it. Because he knows exactly why she has been like that all morning.

The knowledge isn't comforting in any way.

*

He hides in his office for the rest of the day, burying himself in paperwork. It's not an easy task: he flinches at every little sound, expecting House to pop out of thin air any moment with a smirk on his lips; and his mind seems insistent on replaying the events of the night before in X-rated detail.

Cuddy, mercifully, stays away from Oncology for the rest of the day. And despite all his fears, House does not actually barge into Wilson's office in his usual fashion, not even once. Which probably means that he is trying to act like a responsible adult, just this once. Wilson doesn't know why the thought makes him uneasy.

He gets his updates from the nurses (no, Dr. House wasn't there in the clinic today, but Dr. Chase was; no, Dr. Cuddy didn't say anything; no Diagnostics doesn't seem to have a new case) and finishes more paperwork than he has in months. At the end of the day, he buys Nurse Hall a cup of coffee and lets her go on about the day's news which he knows she is all too willing to share, and learns about Dr. Hartmann's recent obsession with astrology. Dr. Chen may have received an offer from Hopkins; Dr. Sandler was seen leaving last night's benefit dinner with a _man_.

There is no other news. No fresh rumours about some _other_ doctors who might have also been seen leaving last night's benefit dinner together, in more than a little inebriated state. The hospital gossip mill, it seems, is still unaware.

This is a good thing, Wilson tells himself, but he doesn't _feel_ particularly reassured.

House is nowhere to be seen. When Nurse Hall tells him that he left at five, Wilson's feelings are a mixture of relief and disappointment and he chooses not to dwell on it. Much.

Cuddy is in her office, blinds half-drawn. The urge to go and talk to her, to say something – _anything_ – is strong, and it takes the last ounce of his willpower to turn the other way and head for home instead.

At night, his bed feels bigger and lonelier than it has in a long while.

It's always sex with him, he thinks, mournfully. Only, this time tops _everything_ , because this time he has managed to get himself involved with not one but _two_ people; two people who also happen to be his boss, and his best friend. His _male_ best friend.

Maybe House wasn't entirely wrong all those times when he called Wilson a slut.

He falls asleep considering the pros and cons of a career in a Tibetan monastery.

*

The next few days are equally unsettling.

Wilson hides in his office, and House, strangely, does not bother him at all, which is even more unsettling. Cuddy's mood does not improve, and Wilson finds himself nearly drowned in a flurry of memos; it doesn't require much investigation to learn that such has been the fate of every other department in the hospital.

His sources tell him that Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy had yet another skirmish over clinic duty, resulting in Dr. House being awarded triple clinic time for the rest of the week. At least _that_ is back to normal, Wilson thinks, but the thought only manages to depress him some more.

He isn't used to this.

Wilson has affairs; Wilson gets laid. Sometimes he even ends up getting married. House finds out (House always finds out) and proceeds to drive him crazy about it. They go out and drink too much; Wilson sleeps on House's couch, and in the morning he wakes up with a hangover and House mocking him about everything that he allegedly said under intoxication. Sometimes, if the affair is a particularly high-profile one (and Wilson has had a few), or if House has been indiscreet again, he finds Cuddy looking at him – after a board meeting, fresh from the triumph of having saved House's job yet another time; during a consult, which invariably ends in a symposium on House and his latest exploits – with a wry, knowing smile on her face; not quite able to hide that she's barely restraining herself from saying something. If the affair involves a hospital employee (and Wilson has had a few of them as well), the smile is replaced with an air of resigned acceptance.

He isn't used to – _this_ , whatever this is. He thinks he might be slowly going out of his mind, fixating on this stupid one time thing that he was dumb enough to get mixed up in because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

His problem is partly solved when he hears a loud voice on his way out of Radiology, clutching Mrs. Tomlinson's scans: 'I think I'm being ignored. Do you think I'm being ignored?'

House is stretched out on the chairs in the corridor, twirling his cane. Chase is beside him, patient chart in hand, with a more-puzzled-than-usual expression on his face.

'I'm not ignoring you,' Wilson responds, automatically, and immediately feels like biting his tongue off for rising to the bait so easily.

House, of course, is delighted; there's an evil glint in his eye, and Wilson gets the feeling that if House could cackle, he most certainly would. Instead, he says, 'You don't call, you don't write, you don't respond to my tear-filled messages… Is it something I did? Is there… _someone else_? Are you _breaking up_ with me?' Wilson can't but help admire the way his voice breaks.

He sighs. 'Can we talk?'

House looks pointedly at a visibly uncomfortable Chase, who says, 'I'll, uh, get on with the tests, then', and scurries off as fast as possible.

'Well?'

'Not here,' Wilson says; and, after a moment's consideration, heads for the nearest men's room.

'Did you just drag me in here to have your wicked way with me again? God you're insatiable,' House says, after Wilson's latched the door and looked around to ensure no else's around. And then, accusingly: 'You've been hiding. In your office.'

'Thank you for stating the obvious', Wilson mutters.

' _And_ you're cranky. Hmm. It _could_ be PMS, but I'm thinking this has more to do with a certain night of unbridled lust and passion.' House waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

'House. I just needed some time to myself, okay? I needed to – think,' Wilson says, raising a hand to massage his neck. It doesn't sound very convincing, even to his own ears, but House seems to be buying it nonetheless because he merely nods, tapping his cane on the ground. Maybe he's just letting him off easy, Wilson thinks, saving the _why_ of that for another time.

'Wanna grab lunch?' he says, after a beat.

'Yeah,' House says. 'You're paying.'

Wilson, for once, doesn't mind.

*

Things slowly limp back to normalcy. So to speak.

It's still awkward, despite House's endless bedroom jokes; or perhaps because of them. But at least Wilson isn't hiding anymore. And when he finds House stretched out on his couch one day, thoughtfully munching on _his_ lunch, Wilson simply shakes his head and orders himself some more from the cafeteria. Which House proceeds to steal from, as soon as it arrives.

Wilson watches him eat for a few minutes before he blurts: 'Did you and Cuddy ever talk about it?'

'Expected her to be more of a screamer. Told her that,' House shrugs. And Wilson thinks, maybe he did, because they do talk about things like that, in their own warped way.

'And the tattoo was a bad idea. Of course, I was very sympathetic – youthful follies, and all that. Funny thing, she didn't seem to appreciate it too much,' House says, with a long-injured sigh.

'I wonder why.' Wilson sighs. House makes it sound so simple.

He and Cuddy are on talking terms again. Except that they don't _talk_ , not really, never beyond what is strictly necessary. Cuddy doesn't smile at him the way he has come to expect at the dreary board meetings; doesn't catch his eye and make a face while some belligerent board member goes on and on about House's misdemeanours. She doesn't come calling when House has done something insane; Wilson had to hear about the irate lawyer with erectile dysfunction from Foreman, of all people, _after_ everything was over and damage control had been initiated, without Wilson's knowledge or intervention. It bothers him, and he doesn't what to do about it.

That, and the fact that it's a struggle _not_ to remember the way she felt underneath him every time he runs into her.

'Could you _stop_ analysing? Or go brood somewhere else – it's making my head hurt,' says House from his prone position on the couch.

Wilson considers pointing out that it is, in fact, _his_ office, but it wouldn't serve any purpose, so he says instead: 'You're dealing with this very well.'

'There's nothing to deal with,' House says, airily.

'House, we can't just – are you going to pretend it never happened?'

'Now _that_ sounds like an _excellent_ idea.' And, when Wilson remains silent: 'You're such a girl.'

Wilson is still analysing as they watch _The O.C_ re-runs on House's television later that evening, beer in hand and comfortably settled on the couch. 'I don't know if we should be together,' Ryan tells Marissa. They'll end up together, sooner or later, Wilson thinks; the world of television, fortunately, is always predictable.

'You're brooding again.'

House is watching him; intently, as if he's trying put all the pieces together, make the correct diagnosis. There's a hush in the room, Wilson realises, in spite of _The O.C_ in the background. Heart beating at a considerably faster rate; sudden, strange light-headedness: Wilson knows this feeling.

On-screen, Marissa weeps, 'So that's it?'; 'I can't pretend it didn't happen,' Ryan says.

House doesn't say anything when Wilson shifts and leans in, experimentally; doesn't say anything when he leans even closer, pressing his lips on his. His face is sandpaper-coarse, and Wilson remembers this from that night: warm breath; stubble against his cheek and the world spinning slightly.

*

Life with House, it turns out, remains pretty much the same – the sex not withstanding.

Wilson stays over more often. House insults his ties, his shoes, his cooking, his grooming habits, and complains about the amount of space Wilson takes up at night even though _he_ is the one doing the kicking and blanket-stealing. In the morning, Wilson makes breakfast; House hogs the newspaper, filling in the crossword in ink.

It's a comfortable routine. He could get used to this, Wilson thinks. He could definitely get used to this.

Of course, because things never are all that simple with him and his life really is a soap opera, Wilson finds himself obsessing over something else altogether.

For instance: he's grinding into House, whispering 'You're so needy' into his ear as House groans. 'Go on, make fun of the cripple,' House says, slightly breathless, and suddenly he's thinking of another time they did this, tangled limbs and her gasps in sync with theirs. It makes him thrust harder, and he presses his face against House's shoulder as he comes.

Or when he's lounging on House's couch, dividing his attention between _Passions_ , the newspaper, and House: he finds himself picturing _Cuddy_ there, relaxed and smiling and so unlike her usual self at work. (She would laugh at House's taste in television, and tell him off for filling in the crossword in ink. 'Because I don't get them wrong, _that's_ why,' House would say, and Cuddy would roll her eyes.)

It's inconvenient, to say the least.

Wilson likes to think that he has, in his way, managed to come to terms with… what happened with House and Cuddy that night. They were drunk, and they were _there_ , and it happened, and that was all. And even if things haven't exactly been… smoothened out with Cuddy, now he has this… thing with House, and he is, well, content. He is content, and there is no conceivable reason as to why this should be happening to him, why he just can't _let it go_.

He puzzles about this; puzzles about what it is that is going on in here, and the only reason his nails are still intact is because of the number of times he has told House what a filthy, juvenile habit it is.

It comes to him one afternoon, while he's comfortably seated in the Coma Guy's room and keeping his hands to himself because they don't do this at work. House has the popcorn, and Emily is about to have a tearful reunion with Sonny when Cuddy bursts in, 'What did you tell Hamilton?'

'Nephrology or Paediatrics?' Wilson almost blurts, before catching the look in her eye and remembering that he is not supposed to be in here.

'Shh,' House says, not looking away from the screen.

'Sonny, I know I'm not supposed to be here,' Emily says. House grabs some more popcorn and puts them in his mouth, casually.

'House!'

'Do you mind?' House says, finally turning away from the screen to face Cuddy. 'You're disturbing the patient. Does patient care mean _nothing_ to you?'

Wilson watches Cuddy grow a fascinating shade of crimson. She really is magnificent in her rage.

'Hamilton just handed in his resignation. He mentioned something about 'that bastard House' – '

'Oh, I'm _touched_.'

' – and a consult. What did you tell him?'

'Hamilton is an idiot. I thought he should know that. For his own good,' House says, wide-eyed and innocent: the model of goodwill and generosity. Cuddy just keeps looking at him, and, after a while, House adds, 'I may have said something about his tie. It was a really ugly tie. I had no _idea_ he would be so touchy about it.'

'Dr. Hamilton is one of the most respected nephrologists in this country, not to mention one of the most efficient doctors in this hospital right now. He's an asset to the hospital – '

'Hey, I thought _I_ was an asset to the hospital!' House has the gall to look affronted. Wilson cringes. He is no callow intern, shaking in fear in front of the Dean of Medicine, but Lisa Cuddy at her irate best manages to strike fear in the hearts of every soul in the hospital, and Wilson is no exception. Well, everyone except House, who finds it extremely amusing, and does his best to provoke her even further.

'You're an ass who gets off on antagonising people.' Cuddy takes a deep breath, and continues, 'I have told Dr. Hamilton that I will not be accepting his resignation. You will apologise to him, and you,' she says, turning to Wilson, 'will make sure that he does. I don't care what it takes.'

It's their first 'normal' conversation in weeks, and Wilson finds himself nodding in obedience, tongue-tied and unable to speak.

'And you're supposed to be in the clinic,' she tells House. 'Ten minutes ago, actually,' she says, looking at her watch.

'I'm not scheduled for the clinic today,' House protests.

'You are now,' Cuddy says, with a very sweet smile.

When she's gone, House returns to _General Hospital_ , not looking particularly gloomy or repentant, despite the extra clinic hours he's just earned himself.

Wilson's face is strangely heated. It's not just from embarrassment.

Things fall into place, suddenly. It's like a light bulb going on above his head, an epiphany of sorts.

'Shit,' Wilson says, and hastily pretends to have some Very Important Work to do when House asks him what's wrong.

The Tibetan Monastery seems like an extremely reasonable plan at this point.

'Shit,' he says again. It feels like the most appropriate thing to say.

*

Another day of tortuous agony and burying himself in paperwork and Wilson's just about had it. He had enough of this the last time round.

He figures he should tell House, because House will eventually find out (House always finds out) and he will never hear the end of it.

It will, at least, be worth the effort. Or so he tells himself, as he fortifies himself with some of House's best whisky.

*

A few smiles, a couple of donuts and a cup of coffee, and Wilson has Cuddy's schedule for the next two weeks, courtesy her newest personal assistant. He bides his time, then, waiting for the right moment.

*

On the appointed day, Wilson lets House talk him into giving him a blowjob before coming to work. It generally puts House in a (marginally) mellow mood for the rest of the day, and he could certainly do with that. He covers for House in the clinic in the morning, ignoring Brenda's glares and makes sure that House doesn't cross paths with Cuddy under any circumstance.

House is in his office, happily occupied with his Game Boy when Wilson finally makes his move. The three fellows are nowhere to be seen. Wilson pulls out a chair and waits.

'You might as well say it,' House says, after a few minutes of silence.

Wilson clears his throat. 'I was thinking of asking Cuddy over to my place for drinks this evening… that is, if you don't mind.'

House looks up.

'Drinks,' he says, slowly. Wilson tries not to hyperventilate. 'Is that what they're calling it now?'

'Drinks. If you don't mind,' Wilson replies, voice surprisingly steady.

'Drinks.' There's an awkward pause, during which Wilson almost considers back-tracking and laughing it off, but then House shrugs, and says, 'Sure. I love drinks.'

Wilson's on his way out when he hears House's loud, 'Tell Cuddy to get her handcuffs!' He only barely manages to resist the temptation to pause and look at the expression on the face of the nurse who was passing by.

*

As it would happen, Mrs. Tomlinson chooses to have an emergency – a very real one – on that very evening. Which means that Wilson doesn't get to leave the hospital until much later than he had planned, exhausted and more than a little worried.

Talking to Cuddy had proved considerably more difficult than talking to House. It had been downright painful, if Wilson is honest with himself: he had blushed, all smoothness gone, and she had glared and asked him why he was wasting her time, and he had blushed some more. In the end, however, he had looked her in the eye, and she had said she would come (and maybe she had blushed a little bit, but that might just have been his imagination).

And because Cuddy was not in the habit of arriving late at any place, she would be at his apartment by now. As would be House.

They might have killed each other by now.

He drives as fast as he can without getting into an accident or violating traffic rules, all the while trying to imagine the different scenarios that might play out later in the evening. Most scenarios involve him explaining himself to House and Cuddy, preferably with a lot of alcohol. Some of them involve finding body parts on his floor.

The sight of Cuddy's shiny red Ferrari and House's bike on his driveway only adds to his anxiety. The lights are on in the living room. He parks his car carelessly, barely missing the gutter, and almost forgets to lock the doors in his hurry to get inside.

When he does go in, however, House and Cuddy are stretched out on his couch, in the middle of what looks like a heavy-duty make-out session, quite oblivious to the rest of the world. There is an almost empty bottle of wine on the table, and a couple of glasses, empty.

Well. No explanation necessary, then.

Wilson clears his throat. 'Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?'

They pull apart at that, House looking extremely smug; Cuddy equally flustered, her lips slightly swollen from the kissing. House is nothing if not a good kisser. The thought makes his heart beat a little faster.

'You are late,' House says, sounding more than a little annoyed. 'I waited.'

'There was an emergency,' says Wilson, taking off his coat. 'I left as soon as I could.'

'What are your minions for? You pay them outrageous amounts of money – maybe you should let them do some actual _work_ ,' House says. Wilson lays down the coat and unfastens his tie.

'Look,' Cuddy says, having recovered some of her usual authority, 'I don't know what you two have been planning, although I'm sure it's nothing good, but I know this is absolutely insane and I – '

She gets cut off at that point by House, who draws her to him and into a kiss. She fights him at first, but House knows just how to persuade someone with his hands and lips, and it's the most incredible thing that has happened to Wilson in a very long time.

After a while, House says, 'Are you just going to stand in there all day?'

'I was just enjoying the view,' Wilson says, moving closer.

Cuddy gives up after that.

*

Breakfast feels like déjà vu: Wilson makes pancakes; Cuddy makes coffee, still refusing to look either of them in the eye. House hogs the newspaper, filling in the crossword in ink.

The silence is unnerving, and Wilson wonders what he'll say to break the ice. Small talk has always been his forte, but small talk with House, or small talk with Cuddy, or small talk with House _and_ Cuddy, _after_ everything that has happened – well.

It's going to be alright, he tells himself. It's going to be alright.

He almost makes himself believe it, until -

Until House looks up and says, 'Next time, can we have Cameron over for drinks as well? I'll arrange for the pillows and the massage oil,' the last, of course, being addressed to Cuddy.

'Shut up,' Cuddy says, but she's fighting a smile.

*  



End file.
